


Soft

by justalittlegreen



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Erectile Dysfunction, F/M, Henry Blake - Freeform, Leslie Scorch - Freeform, Secrets, affair, he's not always incompetent, leslie's pov, short character study, soft, soft conks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 10:50:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20388511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justalittlegreen/pseuds/justalittlegreen
Summary: She asks Henry if she can dry her laundry in his tent, since the nurses' tent is crammed with damp, mildew-y undershirts and nobody's worn a dry brassiere in days. The eagerness with which he says yes makes her a little sad.





	Soft

The other girls think they have her number, that she's some kind of shameless climber, that she must be getting some kind of professional perk. Only their own secrets keep them from speculating more openly.

She asks Henry if she can dry her laundry in his tent, since the nurses' tent is crammed with damp, mildew-y undershirts and nobody's worn a dry brassiere in days. The eagerness with which he says yes makes her a little sad.

Yes, he's forgetful and clumsy, and the man wouldn't know an appropriate gift to buy if someone dropped one in his lap, but he's thoughtful in ways other men aren't; he folds her clothes when she's on a shift, saves her the more edible bits of the mess tent offerings. When he mentions his wife, she doesn't, oddly, feel jealous. She suspects she wouldn't want the Henry Blake of Bloomington, IL. 

The stress and the liquor conspire to leave him dysfunctional most of the time, but he kisses soft and gentle, like a man with no rush in the world. Their second time together, nothing she did could stir him sufficiently, but he asked if he could touch her instead. It had taken a minute - no one had ever touched her like that but, well, herself. It was a little awkward to feel someone else's fingers, and when he said, "Honey, I'm going to need a little help and direction here. You have to give me some idea of what I'm doing right and wrong," it took her a whole minute to eke out the words, "a little to the left."

After that, she got a little hooked on it - his hands. Wrinkled, and sporting his first liver spots, but still a surgeon's deftness and skill. Her favorite was to sit on his lap at his desk, palms braced against the blotter as he stroked and rubbed her until she collapsed on a stack of unsigned reports, him murmuring,,"That's a good girl, beautiful, beautiful" with one hand in her pants and the other on her back. When he started seeing the signs of arthritis, he told her about it with a knowing smirk. She arched an eyebrow and fluttered her eyelashes innocently. 

"You're gonna be the death of my hands," he'd said, pure teasing. "But at least they're gonna die happy."

He always kept a handkerchief to wipe his hands on. Sometimes, he'd catch her eye across camp and lift it to his nose like he was going to sneeze, take a long sniff and wink at her.

The rest of them never saw that side of him - funny and sweet, humble and considerate. Go ahead. Let them think she was sleeping her way to the top. As if anyone would want to get to the top of this slag heap. She had other things to live for.


End file.
